


Harlequin Apologue

by ChocolateCarnival



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barman Eggsy, Butterfly Pinning, Dark Harry, M/M, Mordred Harry Hart, Oblivious Eggsy, Possessive Harry, Psychological Torture, lepidopterist Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 00:03:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14007750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolateCarnival/pseuds/ChocolateCarnival
Summary: Mors Vincit Omnia — Death Conquers All.Harry Hart was rarely moved to emotion in his line of work, always distancing himself from all targets. Only, after running into a vibrant treasure in the middle of London's monochrome skyline, there was no denying the dark possessiveness ignited deep within his blood.He had decided to capture this lovely new butterfly and shackle him behind a gilded cage for all eternity.





	Harlequin Apologue

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note, Honeys. As I need to run into town to sort out my new laptop and all. 
> 
> I apologize for being so late in posting anything, I've been stuck with work for the last month or so and could only write this piece in the evenings and my other updates. Hopefully I've settled into a better routine now, so the updates will become more frequent. 
> 
> Anyways, this piece...well I've always wanted to write a Dark! Harry so I apologize if this is not quite your cup of tea. I wanted to see what I could play with with Harry's claim that poison was what he had 'a lot of fun with'. Also, as a Lepidopterist and somewhat serial killer. 
> 
> Please note the story contains Lemon content. The first I've written in over three years so I apologize if it isn't quite up to standard.
> 
> Please enjoy, though. I hope it is worth the read.

_Part I: By bone, not yet by blade_

Mors Vincit Omnia — Death Conquers All. A simplistic fact of life Harry Hart has been studying obsessively since 1963, the year of his birth. For the last fifty-three years there was no doubt in his mind that in the face of death, _all_ beings became equal. Regardless of their wealth, status, pure-hearted achievement, wicked sin, natural selection or inherent innocence. It did not matter if one was human, insect, mammal or reptile, no soul had the ability to escape death’s unforgiving mercy. 

  
Even _less_ if it was intertwined with his own. 

  
There was something so fleeting in a life teetering on the hallowed threshold, a precious few seconds of universal clarity where only peaceful acceptance had the dexterity to overcome uselessly praying lips. It took too much to realise there was no God capable of saving the wicked from reaping their sins, nor any solace to be found between the pages of mere books. There was something simply _exquisite_ in that tender acquiescence—. 

  
The arrogance within humanity, believing they were worth more time than they were so graciously given and then ruthlessly stealing the lives of others for their own benefit, had become one of the greatest sources of amusement for the quiet Lepidopterist. 

  
Death Conquers. _Always_. 

  
A subtle twinge of amusement was crinkling the corners of contemplative brown eyes, the older gentleman carefully concealing the curve of his smirk behind the kiss of a porcelain teacup as he sipped languidly at the high-quality Earl Grey served in Mayfair. It was sweetened perfectly to his liking, a dash of clotted cream with two sugars. The heady, invigorating addition of Bergamot oil and hints of lavender tickling pleasantly across highly sensitized senses as he turned curious orbs upon a table, partially hidden by an oak panel, on the other side of the teashop. 

  
No one seemed to have noticed yet, the balding man crumpled in a cheap suit and arthritis hands slumped over his seat, broken cup upended haplessly on a pristine white tablecloth as he ‘slept’ deep enough for drooling spittle to stain his crumpled shirt. Only Harry was intrinsically aware of him, the familiar weight of a gold fountain pen resting conveniently in the dip of his suit pocket as he contemplated the poor sod’s soon-to-be arriving fate. 

  
Finishing off the last dregs of his tea and sweeping aside some leftover scone crumbs, elegant fingertips dropped a substantial fold of pounds on the table before carefully slipping a thigh-length winter coat over meticulously straightened shoulders. Sweeping knowing palms over beautifully bespoke cashmere folds, a fluid grip soon curled around the handle of a pitch black umbrella as his free hand resituated stylish tortoise-shell frames across the bridge of his nose. 

  
The only indication of his involvement in the unfolding death scene was the circular Kingsman pin the older man dropped into the victim’s ruined teacup as he passed by, leaving a fare for the afterlife as he sauntered lazily into the pissing rain outside. 

  
Out here Doctor Harold Reginald Hart was nothing more than an average English gentleman out for a late afternoon stroll, the shield of his black umbrella melting into the hundred others bobbing up and down Piccadilly Circus as no one dared to look too closely at his stoic features and assured stride. It was in the way he carried himself, back straight with poised purpose and languid footsteps, gracefully weaving in and around rush hour foot traffic with countless years of practice. 

  
In exactly twelve hours’ time, one of the city’s undertakers would be alerted to the forfeit of another life. The beauty of naturally engineered poisons was their infinite potential, near undetectable components and a penance for creating incomparable toxins. And thus, they personally sculpted the term: “Death in splendour, and splendour in death.” 

  
Humming a quiet tune of satisfaction after another successful kill, Harry decided it was time to head home to the Mews and pin another butterfly to his lovely collection. It had been ages since he had allowed himself the indulgence, after all. Perhaps he could capture the _Charaxes Marmax_ , his beautiful _Yellow Rajah_ that had been kept locked away in a glass cage with green foliage, sugar water and unprocessed nectar for several months now. It would be the perfect way to commemorate the lovely darling before—. 

  
Stalling in the middle of his thoughts the moment a distinctive human weight collided heavily with his chest, the Lepidopterist instinctively reached for the crook of the interloper’s elbow before the both of them could trip over and fall into the rain-washed streets below. There was a split-second of unknown tension cracking the air between them, a collision unravelling the very fates of time as hazy brown eyes locking belatedly with wide, coral-reef green, irises. 

  
_“Oh…” Central heterochromia_ , his mind supplied. 

  
The young man was barely a butterfly out of its chrysalis, maybe somewhere in his early-to-mid-twenties with a strongly defined jaw, straight nose and sensually full lips that parted ever so slightly beneath the older man’s scrutiny. There was _the_ most distracting little black mole seared directly in the centre of the boy’s throat, simply begging to be lathed with endless affection as the column of flesh was exposed just a little further as he tipped his head back to accommodate Harry’s head taller height. 

  
Showing off a flicker of soft, burnished copper locks hidden beneath the brim of a white cap, the fifty-three-year-old was so _certain_ he had just stepped off life’s precipice into his very own Elysian. How utterly _lovely._

  
It had been a _very_ long time since he had found such natural beauty ducking out of a piss-stained alleyway in the middle of London. In fact, this was probably the first time he had _ever_ been so affected by something that was not one of his beloved butterflies or the brief thrill he experienced in crafting another successful poison. An old and familiar need to possess was sparking brilliantly behind partially lowered eyelids, dark brown eyes shamelessly drinking in the short but sturdy frame leaning so naturally into the curve of his body as he shifted his thigh, almost by accident, between the darling boy’s slightly splayed legs. 

  
Tight black jeans, sinfully contoured to deliciously thick thighs; shifted self-consciously at his proximity as large raindrops settled like diamond beads on the collar of a garish black and gold Adidas jacket. Even with winged trainers, dirt smeared but lovingly looked after; pressing intimately against polished black Oxfords, the vibrant youth was a complete contrast to the dull monochrome cityscape. 

  
“I apologize, young man. I seem to have lost my footing—.” 

  
“’S alright, guv. Was my fault, wasn’t lookin’ where I was goin’.” The boy was clearly flustered, uncertain but lightning-quick fingertips swiftly untangling themselves from Harry’s winter coat before smoothing down the rumpled fabric with an apologetic shrug. Before Harry could part his lips to kindle the spark of instantaneous attraction dancing so wildly between them, he was dragged away from his thoughts by the disgruntled hollers of several men echoing closer to their location. 

  
“Oh, dear.” He grimaced thoughtfully, memorising the look of pure panic that crossed the younger man’s haunting features as he snapped his head over his shoulder in search of the looming threat. Flitting gracefully out of the range of Harry’s arms a second later, a brief but blinding smile touched carnal pink lips before a cheeky wink betrayed the ever so soft, suggestive, touch dragging across the back of Harry’s hand in parting. 

  
“’S nice runnin’ in te y’. Got to split, though. Thanks fer catchin’ me, yeah?” Then the boy was off, the proud tilt of his chin surveying the line of buildings above them as curious whisky-brown irises tracked a flash of black and gold against the dull afternoon skyline. The stunning youth had seamlessly ducked into the alley opposite them, clambering up a slippery grey drainpipe as he effortlessly launched himself into the air from the rail of an iron balcony. 

  
It was as if he was soaring on a pair of great black and gold wings, vaulting over the railing of a three-story rooftop and leaving behind a pair of out-of-breath Bobbies in his wake. Dressed as Harry was in a bespoke suit and standing motionless beneath his black umbrella, the Lepidopterist became near invisible to any passer-by’s curiosity as he gazed numbly in the direction his darling butterfly had disappeared to. 

  
There was _no_ way he was letting this one get away. 

  
_“Papilio Thoas,”_ Harry murmured to himself, a gentle smile ticking up the corner of his lips as he started on the familiar path towards Stanhope Mews in Kensington. He had finally found his _King Swallowtail_. It had been over thirty years since the Lepidopterist had felt a rush of such completion, since he had known one day he would find the _magnum opus_ of his entire collection. 

  
Such resilience, pure-hearted wonder and regal pride deserved to be lovingly looked after. It wasn’t often that a diamond was found amongst the charcoal scraps left by humanity.   
It seemed a call to the Tailors was in order, the Quartermaster still owed Harry a favour for using one of his favourite concoctions on assignment several years ago… 

  
Glancing at the elegant Bremont watch encircling his wrist, Harry deduced he had more than enough time to make it home, pin his beautiful Yellow Rajah, call his friend and still make it in time for his evening lecture at Imperial College. 

  
Well, ‘on time’ was a relative term. He was almost _always_ late. Or as Merlin liked to conjecture, he built anticipation for his arrival. The truth was however, Harry merely got too lost in his thoughts most of the time. He had better things to do than conform to the universal flow of time. 

* * * * 

  
Gary ‘Eggsy’ Unwin. That was the name of Harry’s beautiful _King Swallowtail_. The stunning twenty-four-year-old youth had completely captivated his obsessive attention over the last three and a half months. A dangerous web to be entangled in, especially considering that most of the Lepidopterist’s obsessions resulted in either a meticulously planned death or something much, _much_ worse. Scotland Yard, MI5 and MI6 had yet to find any evidence connecting the fifty-three-year-old to several dozen unsolved homicide cases worldwide. But that did not mean that he was not the mastermind behind them. 

  
Doctor Harold Reginald Hart had never been one for basking in the spotlight, he preferred to conceal himself in the shadows whilst working through the constantly updating assassination list Merlin forwarded him. The only way anyone was ever truly aware if they had received a visit from the Gentleman Killer, who always seemed to kill over a cup of fine English tea; was if the authorities paid attention to the circular Kingsman pins Harry left at the scene. 

  
It was both his calling card, a statement to the Tailors that their hired job was complete and a note to Merlin to alter the police records so that no one untoward could take notice of the glaring similarities present in his work. Or, Harry could be a less of a dramatic shit and check in with his handlers via Kingsman glasses. 

  
As it stood however, the Secret (Secret) Service couldn’t afford to lose one of their greatest assets. Harry Hart was a freelance operative working under their restricted code name: Mordred. An agent charged with ‘correcting’ those bold enough to cross Kingsman guidelines. Whether they were enemies or allies, even Arthur or one of the oh-so-righteous Knights; the only thing that truly mattered was that he never got caught. 

  
And that had yet to come to pass. 

  
It had been close to two decades now since he had last taken an interest in something other than his butterfly collection and dealing in death. The absolutely _darling_ creature he had caught a vague reflection of on that blistering cold day in the middle of London, had become a catalyst for the infinitely darker greed woven through the tapestry of his soul. Harry didn’t think he had ever seen Merlin’s eyebrows raise that high when he asked for the boy be tracked down and placed under surveillance, nor when he demanded the outstanding warrants on his person completely wiped from the system. 

  
After having spent several weeks studying the difficult life surrounding the darling butterfly as he was wont to do, Harry wanted nothing more than to see him flitting freely about London. And whether that came from experiencing a freer run on the streets or more time to spend with his beloved little sister without the presence of his abusive stepfather; the quiet Lepidopterist was more than willing to do anything just to see that blindingly brilliant smile turned in his direction one day. 

  
Harry had _such_ plans…such hopes for the future… 

  
_Never_ let it be said that he did not look after what was considered his. He always made sure to keep a constant eye on the cameras erected in the Unwin’s small apartment, tracking his darling’s day to day life as he began work at a high-end pub in Mayfair Harry had set up for him. Or free running across London like the vibrant butterfly he was, desperately trying to escape the twisted concrete binding him in place. 

  
The only darkness that truly stopped Eggsy Unwin from gliding towards independence on those magnificent black and gold wings, was the human shit stain his mother kept on as her husband. Not that she herself had a very clean record looking after her son, mind. It was almost appalling how a supposed loving mother could stand aside as vicious hands wrapped her son’s delicate throat in a death grip. 

  
Harry had never before felt such hatred for a single human being in the space of ten seconds, vowing to himself that he would repay Mr Dean Anthony Baker for every single scrape, every harsh word and _every_ flare of pain wilfully inflicted upon _his_ King. There was no way the self-proclaimed drug lord would escape Mordred’s vengeance, even better if the Lepidopterist could do something to separate the boy from his drug addicted mother as well. Eggsy would be so much happier, unrestricted and finally free to explore the world he was always meant to. 

  
It was that thought that brought Dr Hart back to himself. 

  
Gazing absently at the lapping water of the Themes undulating against jetty a few meters from him, earthy brown eyes were slow in turning their attention back towards the rusted warehouse reaching its imposing claws towards the black heavens. It was just passed three in the morning, a languid tread leading the fifty-three-year-old passed the silent industrial park and into a corroded boathouse used for more nefarious purposes. 

  
No matter how honourable the Kingsman claimed to be, the messier parts of being a spy had to be done by someone. Usually by hidden freelance operatives like Harry, who were either experts in the fine art of torture, intelligence gathering or merciless dissociation. Only _this_ time, Mordred was using the restricted property for his own personal business — a fact Merlin tended to overlook if his agents could justify their actions. 

  
And this, Harry knew, was for a very, _very_ good cause. 

  
“How nice of you to finally join us, Mr Baker.” Harry smiled disdainfully, strolling leisurely towards his slowly awakening captive as the man struggled helplessly against secure binds. The flare of sheer panic that brightened shifty blue eyes, reverberated like licentious lick down the Gentleman’s spine as he stepped towards the familiar table situated a few meters from the captive’s immovable metal chair. The spread of tools across the surface was as immaculate as always: knifes sharpened to razor edges, plyers cleaned from the nails, flesh and eyeball jelly it contained during the previous session and long, rusted, nails curved to deadly points beside an old axe and hammer. 

  
It was perfect. 

  
“Hmm,” the Lepidopterist hummed thoughtfully, unable to decide if breaking the man’s fingers one by one would be too lenient for the magnitude of his sins. Tracing leather gloved fingertips along a vast array of glinting scalpels, Harry decided it definitely would be. He wanted Baker to suffer, to regret every single hand he had laid upon the innocent… 

  
No, no. The former RAMC Officer had a much better idea. After having spent several years studying human anatomy at Oxford and then later at the RAMC before returning to complete his Entomology Ph.D. after an honourable discharge, Harry Hart had learned more than enough to completely shatter the recesses of a human mind. 

  
It would _definitely_ be something to use to his advantage. 

  
“I realise this might come as quite a surprise to you, Mr Baker.” Mordred continued conversationally, never once paying attention to the man’s guttural screeches of anger as he picked up a glass syringe filled with one of his best concoctions. As a paralytic drug that stimulated both the nervous system and hypersensitivity, it never quite allowed the victims to fade into unconsciousness. It was one of the Gentleman’s favourite stimulants during debasing the human soul, long fingers tapping the needle experimentally before jamming the tip into an exposed jugular. 

  
“No amount of begging or screaming or screeching will end this lesson in manners, see. For inflicting such pain and anguish upon the innocent every day of your life, I solemnly vow to pay you back for every single second you had your hand wrapped around your stepson’s neck. Every bruise, cut, debasing word or abusive action will be returned to you today in tenfold.” After having calmly depressed the plunger, Harry returned ten minutes later with a brand new scalpel expertly clutched between long, steady, fingertips. 

  
Carefully schooling back the deliciously dark rapture building a steady rhythm in the pit of his stomach, finely tailored black trousers came to rest upon a dusty concrete floor as he knelt down to better observe the genuine fear glazing his victim’s eyes. It always started to get so much more intense for them when they realized they couldn’t move or speak, never mind fight back against the punishment to come. 

  
“All you should truly know, is that you’ll be begging the gods to end your anguish long before I’m generous enough to grant you mercy.” Raising his right hand to cut a seamless incision into a medicinally paralysed pinkie, Harry Hart proceeded to sever joints, muscle, nerves and flesh whilst expertly avoiding cutting through any major arteries. The resulting moan he received, as he pulled the first distal phalanx from the incision with a set of forceps, echoed like a shot into the distance…quite a feat considering the man was paralyzed. 

  
“Hmmm,” Mordred hummed thoughtfully, the small gore smeared bone clinking a distinctive song onto the metal tray as he wedged his forceps onto the middle phalanx next. 

  
“Did you know, there are twenty-seven bones in the human hand?” Harry continued after the clink of two more bones, methodically opening a bleeding incision into the next finger as he briefly flicked his gaze upwards. “By the time I reach fifty-four, your heart will either have given out or we will have the privilege of playing with something else to pass the time.” 

  
“I do so enjoy removing the eyes or tongue, you see. The anguish it causes, I am told, is absolutely exquisite.” 

  
“You’ll never feel more alive than you do in that moment.” Delicately wrinkling his nose at the acrid stench of piss flooding his senses, Harry chuckled quietly at the violent terror scenting the air as he continued his work without interruption. For every single bone he removed, the usually mildly mannered Professor recounted the anguish these filthy hands had once inflicted upon his darling _King Swallowtail_. 

  
_Never again_ , he promised himself. _Never, ever, again._

  
Gazing down apathetically at the husk of what was left of Baker five agonising hours later: hands useless bags of meat by his side, stained in his own blood, piss and gore with no tongue to scream for help as he bled to death on the cold stone floor; left Harry reasonably satisfied that Dean Anthony Baker would never again lift a single hand against his family. That was _if_ anyone could even fish him out of the Themes before he became even more unrecognisable. 

  
It was a job well done, considering the trash he had had to work with. 

  
Now all the fifty-three-year-old wanted to do was go home, have a nice drink, settle into the soft armchair in front of his living room fire and assess the latest tutorial assignment he had handed out to his class the day before. After that, he would be free to think of ways to draw his darling butterfly into his gossamer silk web. With Dean out of the way and Michelle Baker soon to follow, there was plenty of time for Harry to ease himself into Eggsy’s daily routine without outside interruption. 

  
The overwhelming scent of freshly spilled blood and gore resolutely followed him outside however, marginally dimming the crisp morning air as the fifty-three-year-old tucked a dark blue scarf beneath the lapels of his bespoke jacket and skilfully concealed several carmine splatters bleeding through immaculate white cotton. Perhaps he should visit the Tailors again tomorrow, it had been a while since he had had a new suit commissioned... 

  
_Yes,_ that sounded like a marvellous idea. Dagonet had been plying him with that double-breasted, peak lapel, navy pinstripe for a long time now… 

* * * * 

_Part II: The Spindler & the Butterfly King_

For the first time in twenty-four long years, Eggsy Unwin was truly content with his life. After his disastrous dismissal from the Royal Marines at his mother’s terrified insistence two and a half years before. And now his stepfather’s fortunate disappearance to fuck-knows-where, the former Marine had finally managed to settle himself into a posh bartending job at the end of St James’ Street and moved into a cosy little flat at the higher end of London. 

  
With the disappearance of his police record (a fortunate glitch in the system), Eggsy had been granted full custody of his little sister Daisy. The day his mother had been sent to the NHS Mandatory Rehabilitation Centre for severe drug and alcohol addiction, had been one of the hardest he ever had to live through. The sheer betrayal and despair reflected in her eyes as she had been led away at his insistence had nearly been enough to shatter him apart inside. 

  
It was an increasingly hard endeavournot to resent her for the unnecessary pain and suffering she had encompassed in their lives with Dean. Even if a part of him would always think so very, _very_ dearly of her; Eggsy often wondered if Michelle Unwin’s spiral into addiction hadn’t been some failing on his part as a good son. Had he simply not been good enough for her to want to stay sober after his father’s death? Or did the fact that he had inherited Lee’s reckless valour and inherent honour to protect those he loved, given her more ammunition to resent him herself? 

  
Startling violently at the bell above the door announcing an unexpectedly early customer, the burnished-copper blonde made sure to double-check the crispness of his evening uniform as he smoothed down the last noticeable creases worked into perfectly pressed black trousers. Polished black Oxfords were shifting quietly to the side, the cinch of an elegant charcoal waistcoat smoothly accentuating the starched white of his collar and cuffs as black sleeve-garters dutifully kept the crisp fabric from getting in the way of work. 

  
“Evenin’, Sir.” The twenty-four-year-old greeted without looking up, briefly fiddling with an imitation cufflink before shifting his full attention towards confidently approaching footsteps. “‘S a bit early te be ‘ere innit? Still ‘alf-an-‘our or so till openin’, ‘m afraid.” 

  
“I am awfully sorry, young man. I seem to have my times muddled up.” Straightening instinctively at the blasé dismissal, coral-reef green irises blinked several times to make sure what he was seeing was real as he reached up to adjust a pair of black-framed glasses his optometrist had prescribed. The approaching patron was surely just glancing the razor edge of early fifty, devilishly handsome features turning towards him with openly admiring whisky-brown orbs as mile-long legs accentuated the sensual roll of trim hips. 

  
A truly beautiful smile was unspooling across the plush surface of the older man’s lips, creating a spark of vague recognition somewhere deep in the back of the bartender’s mind as a fine dusting of pink coloured the bridge of his nose. Eggsy was barely able to keep himself from reaching across the counter to drag the older gentleman into a filthy snog—. 

  
_Holy fuckin’ fuck!_ He cursed internally. 

  
When he had come in to work today, Eggsy sure as hell had not expected to run into such perfection…never mind being so vastly affected by someone constraining a hundred-and-eighty-seven centimetre frame with such beautiful debonair pride. This had never happened to him before, an instantaneousness attraction fizzing frenetically through the air between them as subtle grey filaments; threaded through the man’s perfectly coiffed chocolate brown locks, only added aged sophistication to Mr Gentleman’s deviously smirking lips. 

  
Sparkling brown irises were dancing with unspoilt delight at the bartender’s visible attraction, lidding heavily behind long black lashes as they danced over Eggsy’s shorter frame with timeless appraisal. It was an image that made the twenty-four-year-old flush with overjoyed mortification. Never before had he allowed himself to respond to any sort of flirting between himself and another man, especially considering the life he had been forced to live beneath his step-father’s thumb. 

  
Alas, even as comfortable as Eggsy was being bisexual in the confines of his own head; he had never felt something so soul-compelling before. The man’s charismatic presence was like a siren call to him, seducing his very soul into dancing upon death as he finally, _finally_ stepped over that dark precipice into blasphemous desire. 

  
The resulting fall he was expecting, he realised; was set to be _glorious_. 

  
“What can I get y’, guv?” He asked compulsively, violently cutting off his own thoughts before they could devastate the rest of his mind as Eggsy barely even stamped down on the instinctual need to call the gentleman ‘Sir’. It was a title the fifty-something seemed worthy of, even when falling from the lips a street chav like him. It was only Eggsy’s innate rebelliousness that reigned that need back however, his body naturally weary of allowing anyone that much influence over his psyche. 

  
“I couldn’t help but notice your accent, dear boy. You’re not quite from this side of London, are you?” The young bartender would have bristled at the implications of that statement were it not for the genuine interest in warm brown irises. There was flicker of insubordinate delight swirling deep within whisky depths, telling the story of a rich tosser that was more than absurdly pleased with something different marring his usual untouchable territory. It was in stark contrast to the disgust some patrons adopted when they caught first whiff of his cockney drawl. 

  
Even perfectly polished and seemingly harmless behind a pair of sophisticated tortoiseshell frame glasses as his new interest was, Eggsy was not naive enough to jump into this situation head first. There was a subtle but dangerous undercurrent lingering beneath Mr Gentleman’s carefully constructed veneer, something that couldn’t quite conceal the violent pleasure dilating black pupils as they locked the twenty-four-year-old in place with untapped hunger. 

  
And yet, instead of instilling that instinctual weariness of another man’s skewed intensions as it should, Eggsy only felt inexplicably drawn closer. 

  
“Nah,” Eggsy grinned playfully. “’M just a gutter rat havin’ found myself here with a bit o’ dumb luck... ‘Cording to them rich toffs, tha’ is.” He teased with heavy intonation, deliberately planting his elbows on the countertop to bring himself just a little closer to the older man’s all-encompassing presence as he was suddenly enveloped in the most heavenly haze he had ever smelt. Elegantly long legs were folding the older gentleman into a leather stool right across from him, not a single sneer of disgust or dismissive glare marring the man’s features as he was treated to a rich chuckle of amusement reverberating through the air. 

  
_That was nice,_ Eggsy mused. Not like any laugh he had heard before. 

_  
_ “Then they must not have eyes to see, darling boy.” The man continued, smoothly startling the twenty-four-year-old for the second time that night. Eggsy blinked several times to contain himself, shyly peaking at whisky brown eyes from the curl of long black lashes. “When I look at you, I see a young man with potential. Someone who wishes to do something good with his life and has overcome overwhelming odds to be where he is today.” Having nothing better to do than shift uncomfortably at such genuine praise from a stranger, coral-reef green irises quickly flitted down to settle on an imaginary piece of lint sticking to the gentleman’s knotted tie. 

  
“You’ve already established yourself as quite a successful young barman, Gary Unwin. If that crystal award is to be trusted.” Following the dip of a head towards the trophy Eggsy had been awarded a few weeks after his assignment to the Rose  & Chalice, he couldn’t help but smile to himself as he marvelled at anyone having the presence of mind to pay attention to his nametag and the award’s silver plaque. 

  
“Well ain’t y’ the observant one?” He hummed with genuine satisfaction. “And it’s Eggsy, guv. No one calls me Gary, not even me mother.” 

  
“So what can I get y’, then? I can mix y’ anything on the house considering it’s before ‘ours.”   
“That won’t be necessary, Eggsy.” A jolt of unexpected pleasure curled near painfully against the dip of the twenty-four-year-old’s spine, that honeyed voice practically curling the syllables of his name in a holy caress as long fingertips reached across the counter to entangle their palms in a brief but flirtatious handshake. 

  
“I’m Harry Hart, Eggsy. And it’s an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance. I do believe a taste of one of your fine martinis would be me more than enough generosity for me. I have been told it is the best this side of London.” 

  
“Nice t’ meet y’ too ‘Arry.” Eggsy returned cordially, absurdly pleased with Harry’s praise as he bent down to gather the ingredients and laid them expertly across the table. “Y’r not gonna tell me ‘shaken no stirred’ ‘re y’? ‘Cause that’s absolute shite taste, bruv.” 

  
“Dear lord, no.” The older man grimaced visibly at the mere suggestion. “A proper martini is made with gin, not vodka. Obviously. Stirred for ten seconds whilst glancing at an _unopened_ bottle of vermouth.” Snorting softly at that, Eggsy couldn’t help the amused quirk of his lips as he set about creating a proper martini according to Harry Hart. Pure gin, iced, in a cocktail glass with natural orange oil suturing the rim and garnished with a twist of lemon. 

  
“Thank you, darling boy. It looks absolutely perfect.” And Eggsy had no reason not to believe him, Harry’s expression remained openly pleased as he sipped at the iced contents. When he smeared a slow and suggestive circle through the condensation with the pad of his middle finger however, Eggsy found himself unable to look away from the display. _What the actual fuck?!_ Hewas absolutely riveted by the small show, his breath hitching near painfully in the back of his throat as he was suddenly very glad for the high bar concealing his lower half from sight. 

  
“Tell me, Eggsy. When does this establishment typically open?” Briefly glancing at the silver clock on the wall behind him, he noted the time as 18:46 and replied with “’n ‘bout fifteen, guv.” 

  
“Will you dance with me, then? Only until the other patrons may have need of you, of course.” Nearly dropping the glass he had been polishing at the casual but suggestive remark, unsteady fingertips quickly put the frail object aside as he hesitantly observed the formal bow and upturned palm the older gentleman executed in his direction. Eggsy _really_ shouldn’t be as flattered by the man’s manners as he was, leaning forward ever-so-slightly as a soft jazz number drifted through the speakers hidden in the lounge area. 

  
Harry’s scent, a heady miasma of burnt amber, sandalwood, Early Grey and a twist of black pepper, refused to breathe as it ensnared the twenty-four-year-old’s senses and he boldly laid his hand upon the curl of an expectant palm. Eggsy smiled quietly to himself as he allowed himself to be led out from behind the bar, gracefully following behind impeccably polished black Oxfords as they stepped onto a rarely used dancefloor. 

  
“I don’t think my kind of dancin’ would be somethin’ y’d enjoy, guv. It’s been years since I’ve tumbled ‘round a floor not related to gymnastics, I cannot guarantee the safety of y’r toes.”   
“Not to worry, Eggsy.” A soothing baritone fanned intimately against the side of his temple. “I’m sure we can find a compromise.” 

  
“I’ll hold y’ te that then.” And just like that, Eggsy stepped closer to the man’s magnetic presence and leaned a little more intimately against the curve of Harry’s taller frame. The tips of possessive fingertips were trailing a teasing line of fire down the dip of the twenty-four-year-old’s spine, only coming to a proprietary halt when they reached the cinched bow situated against the small of his back. 

  
Two sets of polished black Oxfords soon fell into a naturally slow but steady rhythm, swaying hypnotically to the rising and falling melody as they transversed the floor in a complex but sensual seduction. Harry Hart really knew how to dance, the flattered bartender gathering the last of his courage as he curled his arms around the back of the older man’s neck. 

  
Forcing his shorter frame on the tips of his toes to accommodate their natural height-difference, he shivered unexpectedly at whisper soft pomade-scented strands that tickled the inside of his wrist. It seemed that Harry had naturally curly hair, a stray forelock flopping ridiculously out of its gelled mould to grace the man’s left temple. 

  
_Damn it!_ Eggsy swore, wanting nothing more than to run his fingers through those luxurious locks just to see what Harry looked like with uncontained lust cracking through the stiff lacquer of gentlemanly veneer. It was a yearning desire that threw the former Marine’s previous caution to the wind, his entire body vibrating with reckless need as he lifted his lips just a few millimetre’s shy of brushing against the older patron’s ear. 

  
“’Arry?” He breathed shyly, afraid to shatter the sweet and fragile moment blooming between them as he gave himself over the older man’s leading steps and enjoyed the slow heat simmering so potently through the curl of his veins. He could barely contain himself anymore, petal pink lips parting for the nervous caress of his own tongue as he pressed his temple against the beginnings of soft brown curls. 

  
“Will y’ stay till my shift’s over? I—.” 

  
“Of course, darling boy.” Harry interrupted, thankfully taking away the younger man’s opportunity to make more of a fool of himself. “I’ll endeavour to give you everything your heart desires.” The press of a delicate kiss tickling the top of his head, no doubt dishevelling the hard work Eggsy had put into parting and partially slicking back his unruly coppery strands, forced a blindingly brilliant smile to cross lush petal pink lips. 

  
This night was indeed one he could never have dreamed of. 

  
In a good way, of course. 

* * * * 

How the two of them transitioned from a sexually charged taxi-cab ride to a perfectly cordial little house at the end of Stanhope Mews, was punctuated only by a scorching hot palm resting against the dip of the youthful twenty-four-year-old’s spine. The older gentleman was guiding his guest quietly through the front door, Eggsy’s body instinctively bowing towards Harry’s taller frame the instant an addictive force pressed him up against a now closed wooden surface. 

  
He was too far gone to care where they were or what they were doing, his entire mind listing in dizzying circles as tender, questing, fingertips lifted in askance to trace moist petal pink lips. Acquiescing naturally to the tender drag of a calloused thumb, Eggsy eagerly leaned into the caress as he gasped in pure delight at the sensational fire it ignited deep in the pit of his stomach. 

  
The last six hours had been punctuated only by the ebb and flow of Harry’s constant presence by his side. It did not matter that the young barman had spent most of the night tending to a slew of customers and mixing complex cocktails for hours on end, Harry Hart had dutifully kept the promise he had spoken earlier that night and remained steadfastly in the peripheries of central heterochromic irises. 

  
The darker, almost _indecent_ , transferral of whisky-brown depths upon a naturally lithe frame, was such a dizzying turn-on that the twenty-four-year-old couldn’t help but strain against the older man’s weight to get just a little closer. Who knew that such openly lewd suggestions and fleeting touches from a respectable Lepidopterist could harden his cock in his pants so quickly? 

  
_Fuuuck!_ Eggsy could still feel it; the erratic race of his pulse beneath pale skin as lingering touches sparked like liquid fire between curious fingertips whenever another drink had been passed between them. The quiet, informing, conversations that had flowed so comfortably through the air. The frankly indecent cab ride to Harry’s home where a smoky smooth baritone had whispered all the filthy little details of how he was going to take his ‘darling butterfly’ apart—. 

  
_“Fuckin’_ hell! ’Arry,” Eggsy swore viciously, arching back against the tip of a warm nose nuzzling the side of his neck as the older gentleman sought out the verdant scent soaked through honeyed pale skin. Forcing the younger man to tip his head back against the front door in desperate plea for more, sensually thick thighs parted welcomingly in accommodation to Harry’s naturally taller frame as a groan of pure satisfaction slipped passed pleasure parted lips. 

  
It was like his companion knew exactly what Eggsy wanted, winding up his heart for _more_ … More touch… More sensation… More grinding… More kissing… Closer proximity… Deeper explorations… More _fucking_ —. 

  
“Nnngh…” 

  
“You taste absolutely divine, darling boy. I feel as if I could devour you whole.” Eggsy whimpered needily, shuddering violently at the sheer promise lading that tone as he dug desperate fingernails into his lover’s frustratedly tense shoulders. 

  
“ _Come_ on, then.” He challenged boldly. “Been waitin’ fer this the whole night, guv. Don’t think I can wait more.” Twining a possessive grip through languidly loose chocolate brown locks, white sneakered feet pushed a smaller frame onto the tips of his toes as he shamelesslyfitted his lips over an equally needy pair. He had been fantasising about this moment for several hours now, to gather the taste of bitter alcohol upon Harry’s tongue and drink away the last martini the gentleman had consumed in his presence. 

_  
_ The Lepidopterist tasted even better than he could have imagined, the slip of a slick tongue easing between parted lips as he roamed the inside of a scorching hot mouth with new found determination. It had been a while since he had last been this physically close to someone else, never mind contemplating falling into bed with another man for the first time in his life. 

  
In the end however, it took rather little for the former Marine to lose his senses. 

  
Dr Hart made the art of slowly coming undone a lesson in pure defilement and unbridled ecstasy, pushing back against the intimate entanglement of their tongues as he took control of the filthy caress and discreet fingertips slipped a heavy winter coat from broad shoulders. Simultaneously dragging down the zip of Eggsy’s favourite black and gold jacket, he laid their garments on the white banister leading up the stairs before stepping back to breathe in the complex miasma of their combined lust. 

  
With yearning fingertips tugging the younger of the two up the stairs by his hips, their intimate, saliva-slick duel, never quite broke long enough for either of them to make sense of the upstairs surroundings or the anticipated ruin filling soft moonlit hallways. 

  
Interspersed with the frantic grip of elegant fingers, Eggsy could see hundreds of vivid butterflies, fluttering deceptively in their glass shadowboxes as antiquated furniture dotted a darkened office two rooms to their left. Harry did not allow him to get acquainted with the unique layout of his home however, merely leading his _King Swallowtail_ through an open threshold as he fumbled momentarily with the hidden light switch. 

  
After a few seconds suspended in tense but not uncomfortable silence, coral-reef green irises struggled to adjust to the flood of artificial light as a vast dark green and cream master bedroom swam into sharp focus. A towering four poster bed, practically dominating the far wall; beckoned them ever closer as he shivered in pure expectation at the drag of impatient teeth grinding against the protrusion of his bottom lip. 

  
“’Arry…I—.” 

  
“Eggsy,” Harry interrupted soothingly, stroking up the side of his beloved’s flank as he prompted a possessive grip to wind through bespoke pinstripe fabric. Holy _shit,_ Harry was good. The twenty-four-year-old bartender unable to get enough of fleeting touches as a forefinger lifted playfully to smear the snapped string of saliva, still having connected them a few seconds ago; across the corner of his mouth. 

  
“Absolutely gorgeous, darling boy.” Eggsy moaned unrestrainedly at the praise, chasing after the pad of a soft thumb with the tip of his tongue as he revelled in a rare moment of human intimacy when the older man brought their foreheads together in an affectionate caress. “I want to touch you, _Eggsy_ … So _very_ much.” 

  
“Will you permit me—?” The younger of the two didn’t have to hear the rest of the words, understanding perfectly well what the Lepidopterist was asking with such honeyed promise. It was a supplication he was more than willing to grant…especially for _Harry._

  
“Y-yeah,” He chocked breathily, head sweeping down in a shy movement as he resituated skew black frames across the bridge of his nose. “Anything, ‘Arry. Anything y’ want. Just… _please_ don’t stop.” Oh. _That_ , the gentleman in Harry, was more than willing to grant. Folding a large palm around the back of Eggsy’s neck to settle his restlessly shifting limbs, he slipped a free hand beneath the fabric of a long-sleeved black shirt to trace sinfully smooth skin. 

  
Eggsy’s jeans suddenly became a level above unbearably tight, a breathy sigh lodging wantonly in the back of his throat as sly fingernails skittered sensually around the outline of his navel. Trickling embers of fire into ends of constantly straining nerves, clumsy lips collided unexpectedly with Harry’s cheek instead of his mouth as he stared wide-eyed at the chuckle of amusement that spilled passed kiss-reddened lips. 

  
“Patience, darling. Pleasure should never be rushed, always savoured.” There was untamed fondness softening violently blown whisky brown irises. 

  
The few seconds it took for the twenty-four-year-old’s back to collide with a sinfully soft surface when a guiding hand pushed him onto the bed, sprawled lithe limbs across a cloudy green eiderdown duvet as Eggsy forced himself to relax even more. Even watching well-practised movements removing tortoise-shell glasses, caused his stomach to lurch with uncontained need. 

  
He was glaring sultry desperation at his amused companion, coral-reef irises splintered with yearning desire as he arched his back helpfully at the sensual slide of a long-sleeved shirt up his torso. Stilling the movement, however; before it could expose more than his lower back and abdomen, Eggsy raised a challenging brow as he waved his palm towards Dr Hart’s perfectly dressed form instead. 

  
There was a reason why the flush dusting his cheeks was a shade too ashamed, Eggsy had scars he was not very willing to share with many bed partners. Watching intently as deft fingers acquiesced his demand and undid dark navy blue buttons one by one, he was frozen abruptly in place by the look of playful disapproval gracing Harry’s features the moment he lifted his own hands to help. It didn’t take long for a thousand-pound-plus bespoke jacket to pool in a careless pile on the floor. 

  
“Isn’t that—?” He winced internally. 

  
“It’s fine, Eggsy. I’d rather not take my eyes off of such a beautiful carnal display.” And the Kingsman agent was right, continuing to unbutton his white dress shirt after sliding a red striped tie to the floor and tapping off polished black Oxfords where he stood. Eggsy moaned encouragingly when clever fingernails slipped playfully beneath the fabric of his black shirt again, dragging deliberately slow against the peak of dusky pink nipples and carelessly dropping the twenty-four-year-old’s head back against the soft mattress. 

  
It felt like he was slowly but surely coming undone from the inside out, a clothed thigh slipping between shyly parted thighs as Harry Hart crawled possessively over his frame and lavished the dark beauty spot on his throat with suckling kisses. The moist scrape of his tongue tingled like fire across newly sensitized skin, throwing the last of the bartender’s caution to the wind as he promptly forgot exactly why he was supposed to be stopping Harry’s progress and obediently lifted his arms for his shirt to be removed. 

  
“There’s a good boy,” A honeyed baritone purred encouragingly, dropping a firm palm over the strained bulge nestled within dark jeans as a long, breathy, moan spilled unexpectedly from between parted petal pink lips. 

  
“Does that feel good, darling boy?” 

  
“Y-yeeaah…” Eggsy nodded breathlessly, his entire body shaking with unrestrained desire as he shamelessly arched into massaging fingertips. Pleasure was sparking like live electricity throughout his veins, tipping his body ever closer to Harry’s encompassing presence as he curled his arms around the back of his lover’s neck and rocked a possessive thigh over a bespoke clad hip. 

  
Harry was leaning forward to consume his lips again, tugging fiercely on dishevelled burnished copper locks to resituate the chav’s head to his liking as he reclaimed the inside of a saliva-wet mouth for himself. The spark of sensation _that_ transversed from the top of the twenty-four-year-old’s scalp all the way to the tips of his toes, only added fuel to the near overwhelming fire in his gut as he shuddered helplessly at the honest to god growl muffled in the recesses of his mouth.   
Eggsy felt completely possessed, unable to do anything more than accept whatever mercy the older gentleman was willing to grant him as he rolled his hips encouragingly the moment the button of his jeans was popped open and elegant fingertips eased down the zipper to relieve the tightness constraining his cock. 

  
_That was_ —. 

  
“Harry!” A cracking voice wailed wantonly, hissing unexpectedly at the cool pleasure whispering across newly exposed turgid flesh as he scrambled to grant his partner the same relief he had just been given. The dark bespoke fabric was like silk beneath his fingertips, tracing the generous outline of Harry’s own heady arousal as a bitten off groan washed over messy russet strands curling at his left temple. The tiny ‘yeessss’ this evoked against pale flesh, urged him to remove the older gentleman’s own cock from his trousers as he wrapped experimental fingers around the engorged base. 

  
God, Harry felt _good_. Large and plump and heavy in his palm, slick with need as the both of them threw their heads back at the simultaneous and deliberate stroke of two palms. Eggsy had crossed the threshold expecting a great many things on his new venture into the unknown: spreading himself open on Harry’s cock, wilfully riding him until the both of them came or taking the older man’s thrusts with wild abandon and breaking his virginity—. 

  
Only now, Eggsy couldn’t think…couldn’t even _breathe_ beyond a pantomime of forced _exhalations_ … 

  
Time was falling away from around him, only punctuated by the sly twist of Harry’s palm at the head of his arousal and a new, heady, sanctification coiling painfully tight in the pit of his stomach. He had never been affected by another’s touch so easily, never felt himself teetering on the edge of insanity _so_ quickly as the slick slide of a calloused palm, dragging up and down his turgid length, playfully captured the drip, _drip_ of pearly-white precum descending scorching hot flesh. 

  
“’Arry…’Arry…please…I can’t—.” He cried helplessly, hips rocking backwards and forwards in a needy rhythm as he struggled to return Harry’s generous touch in kind. Eggsy was no longer in control of himself at that moment, crying out in desperate need for release as a smooth length pressed up against his own and slipped between Harry’s larger palm to encircle them both in slow, swaying, thrusts. 

  
“’Arry! Please… _please! Feels good_ …” He mumbled near incoherently, briefly wondering if he’d ruin the rest of the night by coming too early as a coil of desperation tightened unbearably inside him. There was only instinct driving the two of them forward, any other prospective action for the night forgotten in the wake of their intense attraction and approaching completion as he willing bared his neck for the Lepidopterist’s searching lips. 

  
It did not matter if a vivid purple mark was being worried into pale skin. Or if his cries were enough to redden a harlot’s ears; Eggsy Unwin was surrendering himself completely to Harry’s will. There was no more holding back, no more falling into his previously unfulfilled life as he dug a desperate, arching, grip through sinfully soft chocolate brown locks and pulled another mouth wilfully over his own. 

  
They kissed like dying men, punctuated only by the filthy entanglement of tongues and biting teeth as they revelled in the natural ebb and flow of approaching completion. Everything else was forgotten around them, the instinctual strain of pleasure taking over as Eggsy was the first to acknowledge he could no longer go back. 

  
He was falling… 

  
He would _die_ if Harry decided to stop, rapture reverberating like a new promise beneath honeyed skin as his mind spun in dizzying circles. It felt almost too good, the pained sensitization skittering like flame up and down his sensually bowed spine as his muscles tightened with spasmodic release. 

  
“Harry!” Eggsy barely had a chance to cry out a misguided warning, one moment a whip-crack of ecstasy flooded his veins so completely that his senses were completely blacked out from the world. He was panted erratically with shivering quivers, a generous spill of pearly-white semen painting across his stomach as he scored sharp nails down a sinfully strong back. 

  
A deafening flood of blood was flushing erotic red across his cheeks, pleasure hazed green eyes lidding heavily behind long black lashes as he just managed to catch the tail end of Harry’s own fulfilling climax. The sensation of another mess mixing potently with his own, drew out one last long moan from between petal pink lips as Eggsy remained exactly where he wanted to be. 

  
The lazy kiss of reverence Harry bestowed upon his lips was achingly sweet, languidly exploring the depths of his mouth now that their initial hunger had been satiated as he leaned eagerly into the languid intimacy. 

  
It had been a long time since the twenty-four-year-old had felt safe enough to relax back into another’s bed afterwards, Eggsy unwilling to trade this sense of completeness for the world as he put all of his troubles and fears out of his mind. 

  
He could indulge himself in a rare moment of satisfaction after all, this was merely the start of their evening and what he hoped would be something more than just a single night fumbling between the sheets. 

  
Yes, Eggsy like Harry very much. He wouldn’t mind staying right here if it made the older man look at him with such adoring brown eyes and the slightest crinkle of fondness caressing his temples. He was truly beautiful in the soft bedroom lighting, glowing with joy as he curled a possessive arm around Eggsy’s waist and helped him out of his jeans to settle them below the sinfully soft covers. 

  
The night _truly_ couldn’t have been more _perfect._

* * * * 

_Part III: Detaching the Forewings_

_   
_ “ _Male Papilio Thoas generally die soon after a successful mating, leaving the female to lay her fertilised eggs on the bottom of a leaf or stalk for hatching larva to consume. The rarity of the caterpillars’ survival depends not only on environmental obstacles but facing up against countless predators as well. Like many other butterflies—.”_

Sighing softly at the familiar quotation swirling informatively in the back of his mind, Dr Harold Reginald Hart adjusted the scribbling fountain pen in his right hand as he cast a loving glance over the vibrant black and gold insect flitting restlessly in the glass cage situated on his desk. 

  
The hand written title of the butterfly, carefully choreographed in perfect calligraphy on thick white parchment, bringing him another step closer to completing one his favourite tasks as he reached for a small container next to his elbow. Smearing a streak of doctored pollen on the tip of his forefinger, Harry slipped his hand into the latch at the side of the crystal cube as he kept unnaturally still until the large energetic male settled down on his fingertip. 

  
“Shall I show you the beauty to be found in death, darling?” He hummed thoughtfully. 

  
“You should not concern yourself with anything else right now, I shall endeavour to capture your exquisite form for centuries to come.” His smile was quietly soothing, waiting patiently for the butterfly to lap up the poisoned treat as languid gold wings fluttered restlessly for a few minutes before eventually slumping into a calmer - much more stagnant - rhythm. 

  
“My, my. You are just as vibrant and giving as your counterpart aren’t you?” Bringing the dying insect closer for careful inspection, the fifty-three-year-old Lepidopterist spun a lethal twelve centimetre pin between his right forefinger and thumb before settling spindly legs on the adhesive stretch of pale parchment. There was single moment of suspended contemplation, time seeming to slow to a tethered crawl before a needle was thrust straight through the butterfly’s heaving thorax. 

  
There was very little struggle for the darling to be had after that, flitting wings flopping uselessly onto its dying body in a final jerk as a deathly stillness overcame Harry’s silent and uncomplaining quarry. He was working in well-practised and precise movements after that, rearranging the stunning spread of mature gold and black forewings over a relaxed back before pinning them in place just where the joint of the hind wings could conceal the silver artifice from the rest of the world. 

  
Captured as his new darling was: mid-flutter and beautifully lax, intense whisky brown eyes danced with unspeakable delight as the Lepidopterist fitted the glass over the new shadowbox and hung the black frame in pride of place in his office. 

  
It was, without a doubt, the Magnum Opus of his ‘Mordred’ collection, he mused and meticulously marked: 

**_16/09/15 — Male King Swallowtail_**

  
Quietly shutting the heavy office door behind him after having admired its vibrant colours for several long minutes, restless long fingers gathered his red robe more securely about his shoulders as he ruffled a contemplative caress through silver-threaded chocolate brown curls. They were still damp from his shower earlier, in a wild disarray and completely untamed just like the darling boy curled so contentedly in his bed. 

  
He had slipped out just before dawn to complete his usual task. Only, he was dragged back even now, unable to stay away for much longer as he silently slipped passed the open threshold and headed towards the occupied four posted bed. It was just beyond the reach of an early autumn dawn, a haunting display of dark blue, red, pink and distinctive London grey flooding the premature morning sky as iridescent shafts ignited filaments of stunning gold through a feathered disarray of coppery blonde locks. 

  
A scar marked back was on full display, the sharp whiteness of silk sheets highlighting the paleness of honey sweet skin as it rode dangerously low on luscious hips. Eggsy Unwin was staring sleepily at the slowly brightening sky outside, having reached needily over to Harry’s empty side of the bed when he woke to bitter loneliness stinging across his senses. 

  
It didn’t take long for either of them to notice the other however, the older gentleman smiling indulgently at the lazy smirk thrown in his direction as the twenty-four-year-old burrowed himself further into a cloud of feather soft pillows and a sinfully thick duvet. There was an empty teacup, having been offered full as a sweetened consolation before slipping out for his shower; on the bedside table as an inviting palm was held out for the older gentleman to join his beloved between the sheets for a lazy morning lie in. 

  
“Comin’ back, ‘Arry? It’s cold without y’.” Eggsy slurred drowsily, drawing another fond smile across pale lips as soft footsteps padded across the thick carpet and Harry settled himself on the side of the bed he had left earlier…closest to the darling boy’s luscious arse hidden by cloudy fabric. He had never seen anything more beautiful than this stunning creature, chuckling softly to himself as he carded gentle fingertips through infinitely soft russet blonde locks. 

  
It didn’t take long for the youthful bartender settled back into sleep’s encompassing embrace. Only, before he could drift away completely, strong limbs wound around the back of Harry’s neck and pulled him downwards so that playful teeth could tug sleepily on the sensitive shell of a sensitive ear. 

  
“What is it you want, darling boy?” Harry chuckled playfully, the tease sending a shockwave of lust boiling through his blood as he breathed a shaky but needy sigh. “You can barely keep your eyes open—.” 

  
“Fuck me, ‘Arry.” Eggsy whimpered wantonly, coral-reef green irises locking imploringly with whisky brown depth as they lidded sensually behind sultry black lashes. He had been waiting for this the whole night, twining his senses through waves of passion and rising ardour within the man’s loving arms. Now he wanted more, he wanted _everything_ the Harry was willing to offer…regardless of consequences. 

  
Oh yes, Harry hummed happily. He had chosen his darling King _very_ well. 

  
“Of course, sweetling.” He agreed willingly. “Whatever you wish.” The gossamer threads the fifty-three-year-old Spindler had woven so lovingly around his darling boy’s life, finally having morphed into the iron chains he had always intended them to be. There was no way he was letting this darling treasure anywhere without him, plucking black Kingsman framed glasses from his boy’s nose that he had fallen asleep with without even realising the hauntingly beautiful picture and ownership it represented. 

  
Together forever, entwined for eternity, he mused contentedly. 

  
Harry Hart could think of no more a fitting end for the both of them, Mordred finally having entrapped his King Swallowtail in a web of his own creation. The flitting, black and gold forewings having been pinned and secured safely by his mere presence. And as every Entomologist worth his salt would know, no butterfly could fly without them. They were essentially crippled without flight and their natural freedom. 

  
Bound forever in willing chains, a prize infinitely sweeter and more valuable than any other, Harry Hart would indeed change nothing of how he had come to possess his darling boy. 

  
Absolutely _nothing._

* * * *   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I would appreciate a little review if you enjoyed it. 
> 
> Other than that, I'll see my Honeys again soon. 
> 
> Chocolate Carnival


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